Thursday, March 12, 2015, was a sad day for me. For it was the day that Sir Terry Pratchett, creator of Discworld, satirical-humanist extraordinaire, and recreational swordsmith, died.

Before leaving us at age 66, due to a rare form of Alzheimer’s Disease, Terry treated the world to more than 70 books, for young and old alike. After hearing the news, I wept, in sadness and in joy. For in losing Terry, I lost a beloved teacher. But in the wake of his loss, I also gained a sense of gratitude for exactly how much this white-bearded, epic-hat-wearing author influenced me as a human being and as a fledgling writer.

Terry was a gateway author for my 12 year-old soul, ushering me into a world where my small town life and my late middle school self were finally mirrored back to me. Through characters like Susan Sto Helit, Mort, Jeremy Clockson, The Abbot, Death, and The Sweeper, Terry gave me the courage to be weird. It was okay that I didn’t fit in with my peers, because there in Sir Pratchett’s novels were dreamers, philosophers, over-thinkers, humanists, people well-intentioned but socially awkward. You know, human beings that acted a lot like me. Through Good Omens, he introduced me to Neil Gaiman, whose work inspires me more than any other author. And it was the energy and crystalline precision of Terry’s sentences that first made me think: “Hm, maybe I’d like to spend more of my life writing. I’d love to create sentences like that.”

There is a question all this reflection brings up: why haven’t I spoken about him more? When I was asked to name my major creative influences in a recent interview, Terry didn’t come up in my answer. Which was odd. I’m usually a person who is self-reflective and systematic about her writing. I can tell how and why a writer has had an impact of my craft and even show you examples. But why haven’t I ever mentioned Terry? I read him with just as much gusto and frequency as any of my other favorite authors. I think my previous silence about Terry was twofold—I was intimidated by him and I’m only now realizing the depth of his impact. This filters into one thing: his plot structure. God, the way he wrote plot intimidated me. It was full of scenes that popped and whizzed through your senses, making you laugh, cry, and ponder the mysteries of humanity. It felt frenzied, but the madness always breathlessly hung together with a careful precision.

No one plots novels like Terry. And to me, that’s what makes an artist—they create something that only they can create. His plots are so beautiful and personalized to him, that I don’t know if I could ever directly use his tactics in my work. Yet, thinking of writing scenes of varying length that carefully fit together instead of writing in well-measured chapters, is getting my first novel draft on the page. Who knows if this is how I will keep it. But Terry’s writing style encourages me to think of the piece like a clock, to write it so that my character’s worlds and desires click and whirr together, freeing me from chapter quotas and keeping me ever mindful of how the larger project may end up fitting together.

Thank you Sir Terry for your wonderful stories. You truly were a writer uniquely your own. I shall deeply miss reading your new words and I am grateful for the continued guidance of your old ones.

My Netflix habits are stupidly predictable. Every time I open up my laptop, or power up my PS3, the same sequence of inane ritual ensues: I stare long and hard at my current video queue, mostly containing television shows my friends recommended and intellectual films I found compelling, at least in theory, when I hadn’t had a busy day at work, or, been chasing after a lively three-year-old who was happily determined to vanquish all of the monsters in my apartment (they live in the upholstery, apparently). Should I watch the American House of Cards? No. I’m not in the mood to watch people be crafty, amoral, douche-canoes to each other. How about Broadchurch? Oh God, no. David Tennant without a Scottish accent makes my heart melancholy (seriously, the world is a much sadder, blander place if Mr. Tennant isn’t gustily rolling his r’s). War of the Buttons? Le Sigh. Not at all. I’m too tired to struggle through the French and watch people, especially young children in Nazi occupied France, be horrible to each other.

Media, media everywhere, but not a thing to watch.

I then quickly scroll through the other suggestion lists that orderly present themselves on the screen. I’ve watched pretty much everything from the “Period Drama Featuring a Strong Female Lead,” section. Heck, I’ve been watching and reading stuff in that category since I was twelve. The same goes for ” Film Based on a Book.” Usually, I’ve already read the book and don’t want the film to ruin it—or, I’ve already watched the film, because I read the book. “Quirky Independent Films” are never quirky or independent enough for me and “Action and Adventure” only catches my eye when the Marvel Universe or Neil Gaiman are doing the storytelling…or, if Daniel Craig is running around being James Bond.

I sigh. Media, media everywhere, but not a thing to watch. Then I laugh. There, in my “Watch it Again” section, is the face of a high-cheekboned women with a black bob and a white cloche hat.

“Well Miss Fisher, it looks like I’ll be watching you—yet again.”

If you aren’t familiar with Miss Fisher’s Murder Mysteries, I highly recommend that you look into it (or at least watch the above trailer to see if it’s for you). Shown on both the Australian Broadcasting Corporation and PBS, the show’s two seasons follow the adventures of the Honorable Miss Phryne Fisher, modern woman and clever lady detective, and her circle of lively, eccentric, compassionate, friends and colleagues. These adventures take Miss Fisher and the viewer through the decadent and difficult world of 1920s Melbourne, complete with jazz clubs and anarchists and couture fashion and rum smugglers and post World War trauma and lots and lots of glamorous parties.

Miss Fisher’s Murder Mysteries is my show for all seasons. It’s writing and visual aesthetics never fail to engage me, no matter how tired my brain is. If my brain is completely shot after a long day, I can enjoy Inspector Jack Robinson’s expressive, grey-blue eyes, Miss Fisher’s stunning Art Deco wardrobe, and all the handsome fellows Miss Fisher sensitively and unapologetically makes out with. But, if my brain wants to be more engaged, I can marvel at the show’s fastidious historical detail, allowing my imagination to enter the world of 1920s Melbourne and experience its joys and worries as my own. And, if I am in full possession of my faculties, I can contemplate the beautifully written, real, complex main character. As a main female character on a popular television show, Phryne leaves me breathless. She is how women should be written—as capable, yet vulnerable human beings, full of strengths, weaknesses, and quirks. This is a character who is the sum of her experiences, and those experiences are pretty horrific: a sister murdered in her childhood, the horrors of WWI (where she served as a medic), an abusive relationship in her early twenties…yet, she lives her life with joy in the face of the trauma and the grief. Sometimes, those experiences paralyze her, but those experiences also make her compassionate, generous, and courageous. One of the things that keeps me coming back is watching her struggle with her past while boldly propelling herself into her future, determined to learn and to live life to the hilt.

Wild Jazz begins to blast from my speakers. Unlike an American sounding David Tennant, watching an episode of Miss Fisher’s Murder Mysteries for the fifth time doesn’t make my heart melancholy. It makes my heart pretty darn happy.

Yesterday was Jane Austen’s 239th birthday and it was a day I observed by joyfully rereading my favorite parts of Persuasion (um…Sophia Croft being a badass lady adventurer, the awesome debate Anne Elliot has with Captain Harville on whether men or women love the longest when all hope is gone, and Captain Wentworth’s letter of reconciliation to Anne…yeah, that book contains some intellectually and emotionally hot stuff. Also, the Regency Era British Royal Navy: you know there are men of feeling with sideburns present.) and sought out Henry Tilney’s sassiest observations in Northanger Abbey (he really is the best).

Yet on a day when I reread Jane with gleeful abandon, I caught myself being introspective. As I met this fine author again in her sparkling stories, I realized why it is so hard for me to write directly about her in my own work. Jane is too close to me. She has influenced me more deeply than any other author, living or dead (though C.S. Lewis and Neil Gaiman are a close second and third to her magnificence). After all of my blathering about her brilliant narratives, outlandish characters, and smart social commentary, what truly draws me back to Jane again and again is the deep feeling of warmth, understanding, and safety her narrative voice gives me. Yet, though I know these feelings and I feel these feelings, I cannot articulate to you their particular natures.

As a writer, you need to have some distance to get anything done. I find it is much easier to write about things when you are on the outskirts, quietly observing the bustle and struggles of others. I could never have that distance with Jane. I’m too close. Jane is too dear. It was her Anne Elliot that helped a twelve-year-old me feel a little less lonely. It was her keen social observations that helped an awkward teenage and young adult me begin to understand the wonder and giddiness and awfulness of human nature. And it was her own confidence and commitment to her craft that still inspires me today.

No, I cannot have distance from Jane. I never will. Her stories have woven themselves far too deeply into my soul. But, I can have patience and allow time to help me figure out her influence upon me. For walking constantly with someone over time can be just as good as observing that someone from a distance.

Plus, it gives me an excuse to read her more often. Not that I ever needed one.

As of today, I have a new piece of fiction published in the beautiful inaugural issue of The Young Raven’s Literary Review. “A Fruitful Tale” is the story of Toupee von Pear. One night, he is stolen from his comfortable tree by the Artist, a local oil painter. What follows is a tale about learning to love unwanted adventures and creating new and better possibilities out of disappointment.

My dear friend, Jenny Blair, did the illustrations for the piece. Not only is she brilliant with brush and paper, she is also brilliant with words. Check out her website here.